The Cost of a Mortal's Captivity
by TARDIS-elf
Summary: Abby Brandon has only one wish that would make her life complete: to die a hero. But how is she supposed to accomplish that when she finds herself in the custody of Loki of Asgard, a supervillain bent on world domination? If she could enlist the help of Loki's right hand man and cutest agent Jared Johnson, maybe escape could become an option... AU!Loki Attacks Comic-Con not Germany
1. Nerd Stampede

I want to die. It's not that I want to just keel over, but since we're all going to die anyway, I promised myself something. When I die, it will not be merely because I have lived a full life and my time is up, but instead it will be because in the end, I was something extraordinary. Because of this, my policy has always been that when I go down, I'm going to go down with a show. I know it sounds ridiculous, and truth be told, my story will probably end sooner because of it.

If you want to understand my reasoning, think of it like this: in your favorite TV show, you have a favorite character. If that character dies while the show is still running, you'll be upset and maybe in future seasons let out a "This would've been so much better if so-and-so were still alive!" If they ride off into the sunset with a happily ever after then who cares? It all boils down to wanting to be remembered in the long run.

I suppose where this becomes a problem is at the Comic-Con in New York. There are nearly ten thousand people filling the halls, in an atomic explosion of geeks and nerds. After a long day of meshing, it's time to go home, and I can't say I'm too sad about it.

Of all the Comic-Cons I've been to, this one has not been the best. To begin, I forgot that the panel I came to see was canceled. So, I went to see another one, and I spent the entirety of the time crushed by a sweaty, hairy guy in a Slave Leia cosplay who looked like he could devour thirteeen burritos in a minute. Judging from the way he smelled, it's possible he already had.

Now that the day is finally over, there's a huge line to get out. Evidently, no one got the idea to leave before the rush, myself included. I'm somewhere toward the back of the crowd, waiting patiently, if a definition of "patience" is "endlessly pleading 'someone kill me now.'" To make matters worse, guess who just shoved his way in front of me: I'll give you a hint, he smells like Chipotle. "This is not how I want to die," I mumble under my breath before turning to the person behind me. "Hey, do you want to get ahead of me?" I offer.

As we're switching in line, a murmur begins to ripple through the crowd, with undertones of anxiety. Slowly, the murmur turns into words: "What's going on?" "The door's locked." "Someone locked us in!" What started as a murmur, soon turns to a rumble. "Let us out!" "Come on! I have work tomorrow!" "Where's my salt? I need to protect us from the demon!"

I have my own confusions, of course, but mostly I'm irritated to have to be stuck in this nightmare for who knows how long. I can't help but think to myself, _You know, if push comes to shove, we could use Sumo-sized Slave Leias to break down the door..._

The volume of the crowd increases to a deafening roar, thundering with rage and panic. Then, without warning, the power goes out. A few people scream; I'm pretty sure one of them was Man-booburitto Leia. There's a click and the crowd goes silent, as a blinding light is suddenly shining directly into my eyes. I turn around to protect my eyes from melting out of my skull. As my eyes adjust, a figure comes into focus in the very center of the spotlight.

My first thought is that this is some kind of show put together to impress all of the nerds at the end of the day. But, if that's so, they haven't picked a very popular character to address us. In fact, I don't recognize him from any merchandise, cosplay, or anything. And what is up with this guy's outfit? Is that, like, ten different types of leather in one suit? How many animals have to be slaughtered for the sake of your horrible fashion sense? Furthermore, what's the deal with the pointy, glowing sceptermajig? Is this the scythe of Death itself come to take me into its cold yet welcome embrace? Or have I simply passed out from Slave Leia's toxic fumes?

Hold on... Security guards are cornering him. One lunges at him, and in a swift, sudden gesture the guard has been impaled on his staff. My heart immediately jumps in my chest, as I realize that this is no show. All of the guards go at him at once only to be blasted back by a sudden wave of icy blue energy.

The crowd is in a panic and is desperately trying to get out of this maniac's way, but where can they go? He holds out his special stick to us, threatening us into a shivering herd. I know I should be scared right now, but all I can think is, _It's happening. This is my moment._

"Humanity!" he addresses us in a loud, booming voice, which for some reason is having little to no effect on 's got this accent that I can't place my finger on, like British but not quite. "Look how far you've fallen!"

Three seconds into his speech, and it's beginning to seem that the threat of death is inevitable. _Let me be the martyr! Please, oh please let me be the martyr!_ I pray to God in my mind.

"You huddle together in the dark like beasts!" I wonder if this guy can read minds. He has a magic stick, why not a magic mind? I try to project an image via ESP of myself dying.

"I am Loki of Asgard!" Oh, he has a name... Should I yell out my name to permanently cement myself in people's minds before I am murdered before their eyes? Do I need to do a speech? I try send him another mental message, _I need time to prepare my final words. Give me five minutes._

"I am your ruler, your king! Kneel before me!" What should I say? _Dearly beloved..._ No, that's not right... How about-

"You!" I come back to my senses to see Loki, twenty feet away, pointing the stick of doom in my direction and staring me down. "Why do you not kneel?"

 _Kneel? Are-are people kneeling?_ I look around at the people cowering around me. I mean, this is sort of shocking. Does this mean I'm a rebel? This is going better than I thought! "Why should I?"

He is visibly becoming enraged. If I were close enough, I bet I would be able to see veins popping out of his face. I am so pumped for this. _Come at me, buddy! This is gonna be great!_

"What?" He grits his teeth in a smile that clearly reads _I will kill you slowly and burn your remains._

In my excitement, I forget to think. "It's stupid," I retort and instantly cringe. It was the first thing I was thinking, and I guess honesty is the best policy. However, my whole "dying like I'm in a stage production" plan just crashed and burned. I'm hoping he gives me another chance. _Alright, take two._ I try to telepathically tell him. _This time give me a little more thinking-space._

"Stupid?" He repeats, incredulously.

 _Just roll with it. JUST ROLL WITH IT!_ "Yes, stupid. I mean, honestly, you take control of a minimum of five thousand people and the first thing you want them to do is kneel? You're rendering them completely useless. So, _yes_ , it is stupid, and I don't care if you mind my saying so."

He lifts his head ever so slightly, perhaps so he can look down his nose at me. "What is your name, Midgardian?" he asks with obvious disgust.

 _Think big! Think big!_ "Oh, now, see, I'm not really sure if your ears are worthy enough to hear my name." _Too big! Too big! Mayday! Mayday!_

"What is your name?!" He demands, his anger clearly bubbling over.

I raise an eyebrow in an attempt to appear cocky. In reality, it probably just looks like I'm constipated. "My name is Abby Brandon, Mr. Mischief, and I have to admit that you're not off to a great start with this whole 'hostile takeover thing.' See, if I were in your shoes, I would go with a sort of Stockholm Syndrome maneuver. Earn our respect. But, evidently, you don't have the brains to put that together. Even if you did, it's not like you would have anything actually respectable to offer." _BOOM goes the dynamite!_

Scrutinizing me, he questions in a morbidly curious tone, "Tell me, Abby Brandon. Why should I not just kill you now?"

 _Why is he asking me things that I can't immediately answer with a witty retort?!_ "Because... I am a... civilian! And murdering me wouldn't be very respectable." I can hear all the tiny people in my head booing me. _Is that a weak enough thesis for you? Just kill me already, why aren't you killing me?!_ I need to say something to really make him mad. _Defy him!_

"And let me tell you something," I begin. This is the beginning of the speech I was working out in my mind earlier. "I don't know how things work in Asgard, or wherever you're from, but here in America, there are things we hold to and believe in. We protect our own, and if you kill me-"

I'm interrupted as a loud, shattering sound comes from overhead. Someone has crashed through the window and landed in between me and my soon-to-be murderer: Captain America.

 _NOOO! I don't want to be rescued! Did I summon you?_ I think back to my unfinished speech. I said America... _Okay! Yes, I summoned you, but I didn't mean to!_

The Captain begins to address Loki, which is my job. "You know, the last time I saw a man standing above everybody else, we ended up disagreeing." _Why does he get all the good lines?!_

Loki becomes distracted. "The soldier," he snarls. "The man out of time." _Eyes back on me! I just called you stupid! Remember that?!_

"I'm not the one who's out of time," the Captain retorts. _I get madder at him every time he opens his mouth!_

Loki lunges first, knocking the Captain to the ground and pointing the tip of his scepter to his head. Captain America doesn't remain that way for long though, before he pushes the staff away and knocks Loki on his back.

Now that Cap has the upper hand, the people are on their feet stampeding like the animals Loki said we were. As much as I want to stay to see the outcome, a mob of frightened people will not hesitate to trample me. I dodge people left and right just to avoid being killed. Being trampled in a crowd of people would definitely be the most anti-climatic death ever.

Then someone actually has the nerve to push me. I try to hold my ground, but proceed to fall nonetheless. However, before my face can hit the ground with a cracking thud, I find myself no longer falling. I can't move. I'm frozen completely still. Is this what death feels like? I doubt it. Is this some sort of magic? Who even uses magic? _Loki..._ _Why can't this guy just finish the job?!_

Suddenly, there's a blast of energy as somebody falls to the ground in front of me. Left and right, people suffer the same fate. There's always a brief expression of terror on their faces before they fall, and then it's permanently reflected in their unblinking eyes. These were people, real people. They had lives and families, and now what are they? A body, a corpse, nothing more than something to throw away...

Before long, there are no more shots. There's also no life. Everyone has collapsed, lifeless on the floor, except for me. By some magic, all the bodies, save Captain America's, vanish in clouds of smoke, and I fall to the ground.

Loki steps in front of me. "And now you are finally where you always should've been. In the end, you will always kneel."

I scramble to my feet. "If you're not going to kill me, then what do you want?" I huff.

He chuckles under his breath. "Abby, haven't you been listening? I want from you what I want from everyone. I want your allegiance."

I cross my arms. "Yes, those thousands of people that you just killed are just tripping over themselves to join your ranks. You expect me to side with a murderer?"

"I expect you to consider your options. I expect you to understand that my side is the winning one."

I actually laugh. "And why do you care? I am one person out of billions. Why does it matter to you what I believe in?"

He begins to circle me. "Abby, you're different. You're clearly not very bright, but you're brave. More than brave, I imagine. There is a war coming, and wars are built on people like you. Stupidly courageous people. The kind of people that become leaders. I want you to help me."

I pause as though considering his offer, then gasp as though I've had an epiphany. "Oh, I get it! You're taking my advice and trying out the Stockholm Syndrome thing. That's very tempting, very tempting, Loki. Unfortunately, due to the fact that you're a PSYCHOPATH, I will have to decline."

He stops, clearly taken aback. "You can't be serious. You are trapped with no escape. You have tempted my wrath. I have offered you a way to reconcile, and, not only that, I have offered you a position of power, and your answer is _no_?"

"This is a simple concept, Mr. Mischief, so try to get it through your teeny, tiny brain. If what you claim is true, to you I am an interesting subject rather than something worth actual investment. A bird with a broken wing, if you will. That makes me disposable, and I would rather die with a clear conscience than with a knife in my back. Now, as you have not currently expressed any desire to kill me, I would like to exit, if you please." I walk to the door and try it, but it's still locked, as I anticipated.

It takes some time for Loki to follow me. "You expect me to simply let you go?"

"No," I grunt as I push against the door. "I expect you to consider your options."

In six seconds the door opens and, once again, I fall. Loki doesn't say a word, but merely spins on his heel and leaves.

I can go right now if I like, but there is one more thing I have to do. I can now tell you from personal experience that dragging Captain America's unconscious body around and buckling him into your car is not as easy as you might think.

It is a long and tedious drive home. I change the radio station at least five times before deciding to turn it off completely. I steal the occasional glance over to Steve Rogers, who is still out cold. It's kind of disturbing seeing him slumped over like that. If I didn't know any better, I would say that he's dead. However, I know that that's not the case. I can see that he's breathing.

When I return home, it's midnight. I almost leave the Captain in the car. I almost want to. I live on the top floor of a small, tidy apartment complex. I have to get him to the very top. If I thought getting him into the car was hard...

I try to defeat the awkwardness by complaining about everything that makes the task difficult, but who am I kidding? There is nothing within the power of humankind that could make this any less weird.

When I reach the top, needless to say, I am out of breath. After gulping down a large glass of water, I tend as best I can to a large gash on the Captain's forehead, Loki's work, no doubt. All I can really do is clean it and hope that it heals; but, mercy, can he sleep like a rock! He didn't even flinch when I used the hydrogen peroxide!

Afterwards, I push him onto the bed and try to make him comfortable. Then I make myself comfortable on the couch (I give it a shot, anyway.) After just a few minutes, I doze off with hardly a second thought to the night's events.


	2. Cinnamon Toast Crunch Party

The next morning, I wake up wondering why I'm sleeping on the couch. Then it all comes flooding back to me. The Comic-Con, Loki, Captain America... I remember it all, down to the last detail.

Needless to say, I missed my chance, but that's hardly my main concern. Nobody else had the privilege of missing their chance. As far as I know, the Captain and I are the only survivors. To confirm my suspicions, I fumble for the remote and turn on the news channels.

 _"A crazed terrorist by the name of Loki of Asgard attacked the New York Comic-Con last night and, out of approximately ten-thousand attendees, left no known survivors. According to our sources, Loki took hostages of all of the Comic-Con's visitors at nine PM. The last news from inside the building was that the famous Captain America was entering. Neither he, nor Loki, have been seen since."_ A very official-looking man appears on-screen next to the reporter. _"We have with us Phil Coulson, an agent from the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division to tell us a little bit of what's going on in the eyes of the government."_

 _"Ma'am,"_ Coulson begins. _"There's not much that I'm permitted to say, but I can guarantee you that we're doing everything in our power to find both Loki and Captain America. Thank you."_ The man leaves, unwilling to say anymore.

"Well," I tell the TV. "You can stop looking for Cap. He's right here." I pause, contemplating my own words. If the government is really on the hunt for Cap, it's not going to be long before they can pick up where he is. Who knows what they would bring in? It could be anything from a nuclear weapon to the Incredible Hulk. I do not want that mess in my apartment. "Oh mercy, he's right here."

I run to my room, where Cap is still sleeping like a rock... or in his case, a block of ice. I grab his shoulder and shake him violently. "Captain, wake up. Come on, Cap, you can't leave me alone to deal with this! Please wake up!"

He has no reaction. Is he dead? There's only one way to find out...

I lean next to his ear, and muster up the loudest scream I have. "AMERICA!"

His eyes shoot open and he falls off of the bed, spewing obscenities. "What was that about?"

"Listen, buddy, if I had known you were a rock, I would've glued some googly eyes on you and called you Jimmy, but we don't have time for that now."

The Captain stares at me. "Who are you?"He looks around. "What am I doing here?"

"Hey, chill, alright? Well, you've already done that... Calm down, I mean. You remember what happened last night, don't you?"

"Does it have anything to do with the throbbing headache I'm experiencing?" He looks down. "Or the fact that I'm still in uniform?"

I sigh. "Memory loss must be so confusing. Why don't you come to the kitchen, you can get yourself some cereal, and I'll do my best to explain things. Quickly, if you don't mind. You have to get back to your people, or they're going to come looking for you here."

Cap nods and follows me to the kitchen. "The cereal is in the cupboard over there," I inform him, and seat myself at the table, waiting for him to get his food.

"I never did catch your name," Cap reminds me.

"Abby Brandon," I inform him. "And yours is...?"

"You can call me, Steve," he informs me, opening the cupboard. "Whoa..."

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing..." he assures me. "It's just... that's a lot of Cinnamon Toast Crunch..."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, that... I'm doing an experiment of how many days I can have it for breakfast without getting sick of it. I'm up to two months. That stuff is like crack."

Steve looks back at me. "Right... I'd hate to be rude, but do you have any cereal that's not real sugary?"

"No, I live alone," I point out.

Steve shrugs, fixes himself a bowl, and sits down in front of me. "So, what exactly happened last night, Abby? Tell me the story."

I hesitate a moment. "It's not a great one..." I begin, and tell him the entire story. As I get to the part where he jumped in, remembrance lights up in his eyes.

"And after I got knocked out?" Steve pushes me to continue. "Did Loki escape? What happened?"

I pause. "Loki-" I start. Just retelling this bit is tying knots in my stomach. "He killed them..."

I don't want to look up to see Steve's face drop, but I can feel his heart break. He stands up abruptly, and begins pacing. Eventually, he speaks again. "All of them?"

I nod. "Except you and me..."

"That's not right," Steve continues. "I was built to protect people, but instead, ten thousand die because of me."

"It's not your fault," I assure him. "Or if it is, it's every bit as much mine. Don't blame yourself when somebody else does something wrong. It was up to them, not you."

"But I could have protected them," he insists. "I should be dead instead of them..."

"Believe me, I know how that feels..." There's a knock on the door. "I'll get it. Don't do anything stupid until I get back." I walk to the door, sort of embarrassed that I'm still in my pajamas.

When I open the door, a man who looks scarily like Mace Windu with an eye patch stands before me. "Ma'am, I am Director Nick Fury of SHIELD."

He is interrupted by Iron Man blasting the door off of its hinges and grabbing me by the throat. "I want answers. Now. Where is he? And if you even try to tell me that you don't know what I'm talking about, I'll-"

"Stark," Director Fury scolds, "leave the civilian alone."

I push his arm off. "Yeah, Stark. And just for your information, you can pay for that door with your billionaire-ness."

"Ma'am, we're interested in the whereabouts of Captain America or Steve Rogers. We've traced him as far as here."

At that moment, Steve walks in, his bowl of cereal in his hand. "Abby-" He sees his two accomplices and freezes in his tracks.

"Gentlemen," I announce sarcastically, "it appears you've caught me."

Director Fury speaks again, "And where have you been, Captain Rogers?"

"Unconscious, but alive thanks to her," Steve announces.

"Care to elaborate?" Director Fury asks, but it's fairly evident that it's no request.

"Well, why don't you all come in?" I invite "We're having a party over sugar cereal and white milk. Telling stories, doing drugs, lots of fun."

"I think we'll take you up on that offer, ma'am, if you don't mind," Fury tells me.

"Not at all. The more the merrier, right?" With that I march to the kitchen to be followed by the three. Fury asks me to relay my story once more, which I do, though it pleases me none.

"So, wait a second," Stark interrupts. "You stood up to Reindeer Games... Do you have a death wish?"

"Yes, actually, but that's not important. I've yet to see the check for my door..."

Stark sighs and whips out a checkbook seemingly out of nowhere, but for all the damage he does, he probably has a compartment in his suit specially built for it.

"Miss Brandon, you say that Loki asked you to join his army? As a leader?" Fury interrogates.

"I know as much as you do at this point," I remind him. "I don't know what he was thinking. It doesn't make sense to me either."

"And after that he just let you go? With Captain Rogers?"

I pause. "Actually, I don't think he knew about that last part. No offense or anything, Steve, but he probably thought I was incapable of hauling your dead weight around and didn't even worry about it."

"It seems unlikely to me," Fury says.

"Sir, I don't know what else to tell you. The last thing I remember about yesterday was crashing on my couch and wanting to forget the whole thing..."

No one says anything for a while, but then the Director stands. "We'll leave you alone now, ma'am. We apologize for the trouble."

I shake my head. "No trouble, except the door..." I glare at Stark.

"Real sorry about that," Stark apologizes, but it's less than sincere. "This should cover it." He hands out a slip of paper to me.

I read the check and almost choke. It's worth ten-thousand dollars! My first thought is, _What kind of door do you think I'm getting?_ Luckily, I hold my tongue and slip the check into the pocket of my pants. "Thank you," I whisper. "Thank you very much."

Before walking out what's left of the door, Steve glances over his shoulder. "Thanks again."

"No problem," I assure him.

By the time they're completely gone, I feel as if I've run two marathons in a half-hour. Reliving the whole experience was not high on my priority list today, but now that I've done it, there's no way I'm going to work. I call in sick, but it's hardly as though anybody cares. Yesterday was the biggest tragedy the world has seen in years. And I was at the heart of it. In fact, I met the man who caused it.

Loki spared my life, and I don't know why. It's driving me crazy just thinking about it. There has to be a reason. A maniac like him doesn't just get a sudden mercy-streak. I hate that there's a possibility that I'm playing right into his hands. Nevertheless, whether I am or not, it still feels like he's breathing down my neck. Even in the safety of my own home.


	3. Subway Sandwich

If you have ever experienced New York traffic during rush hour, you have experienced hell, and I am sorry. Upon arriving in New York at the young and foolish age of twenty, I reasoned that since I had a car, I was going to use it. My stubborn self drove to work for almost half of a year, my soul dying a little bit each time. Eventually, I reasoned that New York has subways, so I'm going to use them.

The station is always bustling with the strangest characters: musicians, artists, con-people. If you want to find a way to get rid of your money fast, go to a subway station. As for myself, the way I choose to be rid of it is by giving to a select group of elders who make the station their home.

My "generous nature" has made me their friend, and it's a good thing, too.I've never been too good at making friends. In fact, I could probably write a book on how not to make friends. Nonetheless, these people made sure I had no trouble whatsoever. One or three of them may know me better than I know myself.

The specific three to which I refer are Don, Simon, and Alfred. They are the three caballeros of the station, the three musketeers, and frankly some of the oldest people I have ever met. If Simon could remember how old he was, I have no doubt he would boast being the oldest man in the world.

Upon seeing me walk into the station, Alfred's face lights up. He begins to elbow his friends who are dozing off next to him on the bench. "Hey, Don! Simon! Look who joined the living!"

"Good morning, gentlemen," I greet them as cheerily as I can.

Don, the youngest of the trio at the age of eighty-three, notices me first. "Abby? Well, would you look at that? You survived after all."

Simon, the cantankerous one of the bunch, snorts. "That's about to be more than you can say for me. I'm an old man. Let me sleep, won't ya?"

Alfred again elbows him awake. "Oh, no you don't. I told you she would survive. Pay up, old man."

Growling, Simon pulls a fifty-cent piece out of his pocket and hands it to Alfred. Yes, they make wagers on my survival like any good friends would.

"So, tell us what happened," Don instructs.

Simon interrupts me before I can begin. "Don't you know anything, Donny? That Loogie of Whatever-place-gard attacked and left nobody breathing."

"Well, Simon," I begin. "I'm sitting right here, so you may be a little bit misinformed." Per request, I retell the story for the third time, omitting the gory details that could traumatize anyone. I even include the bit where I was interrogated by the United States government, though they seemed more interested in the fact that I was a hostess for Captain America.

"I remember when they introduced Captain America," Alfred recalls. "I even went to see the show once..."

"Oh you think that's something, do ya?" Don counters. "Captain America once saved my life from a crazed Nazi with a gun!"

"You're making that up," Alfred accuses.

"I am not!" Don insists.

"I don't remember being fond of Captain America," Simon grunts. "Seemed too showy to me." This coming from the man who can't remember his middle name.

"You're just saying that to be a spoil-sport," I laugh. "Every kid loved Captain America."

"Not every kid, missy."

"Sure, Simon. You can keep telling yourself that." Before Simon can once more deny his childhood-love of Cap, my train arrives and I board leaving them each with five bucks. As I said, this is my favorite way to lose money.

Work is boring, boring, boring, and even more boring as usual. It's always, "Type up these papers, Abby." "Cancel my three o'clock, Abby." On an exciting day, my boss might ask me to run and get some shawarma. When it's time to go home, I get home. I eat, and then I sleep. You get the picture.

One might think that a New York lifestyle is one where amusement is as ever-present as the lingering aroma of hot dogs. This, so far, has not been the case. The only smell that you can always count on is smoke and smog, and I have yet to hear one person say "Hey! I'm walkin' here!" Newsflash: Marlon Brando is not the Godfather, Gene Kelly is DEAD, and Taylor Swift is not welcoming you here.

The only thing that made the place remotely interesting was that there are better Comic-Cons here, but considering how well things went last time, I might not ever want to go back. Even if I did, tragedy seems to find a way of canceling things permanently. All of my thanks to Loogie of Whatever-place-gard.

The next morning begins in the usual monotonous way. I wake up early to avoid a crowded station, go through my morning routine, and begin to walk to the subway. The entire while, the familiar yet uncomfortable feeling of constantly being watched is sending shivers down my spine. Somebody is walking over my grave, maybe even leading a parade over it.

The walk to the station is not a long one, but it leads me past a number of alleyways. I usually never mind them, but whether it's the fact that there seem to be more shadows over the alleys than normal or the fact that I skipped my cereal and now I'm having withdrawals that are making me delusional, something about them is making me uncomfortable.

I quicken my pace, though I feel ridiculous doing it. My mind is full of completely irrational fears. I've walked this way for two years, and I have never had any reason to be nervous. In my experience, gut feelings are almost always entirely wrong and shouldn't be payed any attention. And yet, here I am, making a speed-walk dash for my life because I feel a little bit sick to my stomach.

Something jumps out of an alley in front of me that makes my pulse quicken and, to my embarrassment, even makes me yelp a little bit. It's a black cat. Wow, Abby, I scold myself internally, A kitty. How frightening! You know, the last fatal kitty attack was never. I roll my eyes at myself and crouch down to cat-level. "Hey there, kitty," I call. The cat walks over with as much arrogance as is in every cat, and my heart melts. "Oh, you're going to make me late, but I love your kind too much."

Suddenly, a shadow passes over me and I find a hand pressed over my mouth. Before I can make a useless attempt at screaming, I'm dragged into an alley. The thug pushes me up against a wall and holds a switchblade close to my throat. "Give me your money," he demands."Now. This doesn't have to get any messier, but don't think I like waiting too long."

As it appears, fate has made a hobby out of putting me in life-threatening situations. I don't want to be killed this way, and I certainly don't want anything worse to happen, so my only option is to think fast. Luckily, the adrenaline that has shot through me lends a hand to that. "If you want my wallet," I begin slowly, drawing in all of my strength not to stutter, "It's in here." I hold up my purse. "And you're going to have to go get it." I hurl my bag deeper into the alleyway.

After letting off a string of curses, the thug chases the purse. I follow suit and begin to run in the opposite direction. Before I've even made three steps toward safety, my mind keeps running, but my feet have somehow lost the ability to. I've experienced this before, and quite recently at that. This sort of freaky magic belongs to someone I had hoped never to see again.

"Abby Brandon," Loki's voice comes from behind. "We really must stop meeting like this." He finally steps in front of me. He looks a bit different, wearing clothes that are actually normal, but his staff remains in his hand and he still has a maniac look in his ice-blue eyes.

I try to offer up some witty comeback, but all that comes out is a muted noise from the back of my throat.

"I nearly forgot," Loki laughs. "You can't speak like that can you? Well, I suppose you must be allowed your voice, at least. But do remember that I have the power to paralyze you at any time, so please don't try to run, or I shall have to resort to extreme measures." With a wave of his hand, I can feel my limbs loosen, free from allfreaky alien magic.

Why would Loki be here? Perhaps to get revenge on me for standing up to him, but the only people who know about that are myself and him. "I suppose you've come to kill me?"

Loki laughs. "Why would I save your life only to murder you?"

He has a point, but it's not like I'm going to admit it. "I don't know. You're the evil mastermind here, not me."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You're right," I sigh. "That's giving you way too much credit. What happened to him?" I incline my head toward the dark end of the alleyway where I last saw the thug running.

"See for yourself," Loki instructs.

It sounds a bit cryptic, but I walk slowly to where shadows obstruct my vision. Loki's staff illuminates the ground where the thug lies dead at my feet, blood slowly leaking from his chest. My hand immediately flies to my mouth. I want to look away from the corpse, but I can't.

Loki leans closer to me. "I believe he has your property," he whispers. "Why don't you retrieve it?"

My eyes shift to the thug's hand. My purse is still clutched in it. Swallowing past a lump in my throat, I reach down and pry it out of his still-warm fingers.

Unable to say a word, I return to the light and exit the alley, wanting to be free of the image. Finally, I'm able to choke something out, "You killed him."

"And you mourn?" Loki retorts. "The man was no saint, quite ready to kill you, or worse. It isn't as though you haven't seen a corpse before."

"Yes," I snap. "You're right, I have. Just recently I saw thousands of them all piled on top of each other. They were innocents who didn't stand a chance and you slaughtered them like animals!"

"I take it you don't appreciate my intervention?"

"This isn't about your intervention, this is about the fact that you're..." I trail off, unsure of what I'm meaning to say.

"That I'm what?" Loki snarls.

I straighten my posture. "Wouldn't you like to know? How did you know I was in trouble, anyway?"

He grits his teeth, seemingly unwilling to answer my question. "It isn't for you to know."

"Excuse you, it's exactly for me to know," I insist. "Why won't you answer a simple question? It's not like you've been stalking me, right?" He doesn't answer. That's when I realize. "Sweet mercy, you have been stalking me."

Loki rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous..."

I cross my arms. "That wasn't really a question, pal. How long has this been going on?"

Loki stares down at me blankly. "You didn't truly believe I would let you go that easily, did you?"

Oh, it all makes sense now. The uncanny feeling that I was being watched, the unwavering sense of dread, the suspicion that Loki was always at my heels, all because he decided to be a creep. "Okay," I stop and count to ten just to calm down. "So, since you senselessly murdered innocents. Three days... alright."

Loki smirks. It's not a pleasant sight. "You must be frightened," he observes.

"No," I lie.

"Of course," he laughs. "You are alone without defense with someone you have seen kill your fellow men. Why should you feel any twinge of fear?"

I begin to back away. "Alright, buddy, listen closely. You are insane, and I think we've established that, but what we haven't established is boundaries. Let me begin. Stay a mile or two away from me at all times, and if you come any closer, I'll slap you. Is that settled? Great."

I try to dash down the alley, but before I can, he grabs my arm. "No, you listen to me. That man would have killed you if I hadn't stepped in."

When you feel like you're about to die, revert to sarcasm. "And as much as it is probably right to thank you for intervening," I sigh. "I am really not in the mood. Also, we literally just talked about boundaries, and grabbing my arm is way overstepping the line. I'm going to miss my train."

"You owe me your life, Miss Brandon," he blurts out.

I stare at him in disbelief. "What?"

"I saved your life, and now you owe it to me."

I start laughing. "What is this? Medieval England? Y'know what? Here's what I'll do. I'll get married and have twelve kids. Only one of them will survive, of course, but that's alright because I'll die of the plague before I have time to care!"

"I would not make light of this if I were you. If one does not honor the debts they owe to another, there is a special sort of punishment awaiting them when they die." He says it somberly as though he actually believes it.

"You're spewing nonsense now," I accuse.

Loki's grip on my arm relaxes. "And I suppose that until three days ago, you considered magic such as mine to be nonsense as well."

I feel a severe headache coming in, likely the result of trying to process it all. I'm doing my best to comprehend it but the only thing that's coming to my mind is the word "DANGER" as a flashing red sign. "And what if I refuse?"

"Then I wish you the best of luck in the afterlife," he says. I can't tell if it's a warning or a threat. "It's a matter of maintaining your honor, Abby. Surely, heroes such as yourself must hold to that."

Am I a hero? Suddenly, I can't remember. All I can think is, He's right. You should listen to him. Your honor is important to you. "This is important." I say aloud to no one in particular.

"Yes, it is extremely important," Loki confirms.

"I owe you my life," I announce, fully believing it.

"I knew we would see eye-to-eye, eventually," he says, smiling. "Now come with me."

Together, we begin to walk away from the subway station. It's then that it hits me. My mind has been toyed with. It's as though I've woken up from a dream that I didn't know I was having. Loki is a maniac who shouldn't be listened to at all, and I just agreed that I owe him my life.


End file.
